Shivering, she hurriedly draws
the bedroom curtains,
catches her nail in the fabric
and curses her dying candle.  

Sarcastic concern echoes from the bathroom:  
“Are you alright, dear?”

She raises the finger in his general direction:
“Oh sure, I just love November power-cuts, don’t you?
Some romantic weekend this turned out to be!”

But there is no disguising the smell of fear.

Out in the backwoods
a loping presence sniffs the air,
and crunches ever nearer
over drifts of frost-rimed
fallen leaves.